Bridezilla
by nancy fan
Summary: Rachel and Jesse are getting married and it's the night before the wedding.


**Written for a prompt over at livejournal. This is my first time writing Rachel/Jesse and I had a blast writing them:) **

**I hope everyone enjoys!**

Jesse had proposed to Rachel in Times Square, dropping to one knee and holding out a black velvet box while Rachel had looked on speechless. Shock depriving Rachel of her usual sense of dramatics, it had been a full minute before she had been even able to respond but then she had been all gushing and starry-eyed, tears glistening in her brown eyes as she had thrown her arms around her new fiance and had excitedly declared that it simply had to be a June wedding.

Rachel had apparently been planning her perfect Broadway themed wedding day since she had been a two-year-old toddler, draping towels over her head and clutching scraggly bunches of dandelions as she married Brownie, her favorite teddybear.

Thereafter began a flurry of preparations; Rachel's first task being to employ the services of wedding planner extraordinaire, Jacqueline De Marcus. Rumored to have coordinated the Pitt-Jolie wedding and holding references from such illustrious clients as the British Royal Family, Jacqueline De Marcus was a fiercely intimidating woman but it had appeared she had met her match in the soon-to-be Rachel Berry-St. James. A phone call at three o' clock in the morning to Jacqueline was not unheard of, when Rachel was struck by a sudden inspiration for some elaborate floral arrangement involving a possibly extinct variety of flower or an ice-sculpture depicting the entire cast of the original production of Wicked. It was hilarious actually, seeing this formidable woman with the frozen, expressionless face turn into a flustered, blabbering mess after just seconds of speaking with Rachel.

"You mean, you would like somebody to sing a solo from Wicked during the ceremony, Honey," Jacqueline had corrected her in an infuriatingly condescending tone, the smile plastered across her face clearly an effort of unparalleled proportions as she sat with her hands clasped stiffly on her lap. "We have some very talented vocalists on our books that I'm sure would be perfect for your wedding,"

"No, I mean I want Idina Menzel to sing at the ceremony," Rachel snapped back, bristling at the presumption that just anyone would be able to capture the magic and emotion of the singer's infamous rendition of Defying Gravity.

"But Honey, as I've told you before, Ms. Menzel doesn't perform at private functions,"

The older woman's voice was strained as though she was trying very hard not to lose her patience, her patently false smile on the verge of cracking.

"If I may, Jacqueline," Rachel began abruptly, holding up her hand to stop the woman speaking. "When I agreed to hire you, as my chief wedding coordinator, you promised to make my dream day come true. That dream day includes having Idina Menzel perform, do you understand? If I wanted someone to just book a hotel and organize a few flowers, I could have done it myself. Before breakfast," she sniffed indignantly, tossing her glossy locks dramatically over her shoulder as Jacqueline De Marcus looked on stony-faced.

"I'm sure, Jacqueline is trying her best, Rachel," Jesse murmured appeasingly as she guided Rachel hastily out of Jacqueline's office and out into the blinding sunshine outside.

Discussing table arrangements with Rachel, Jacqueline's ideas had inexplicably jumped from the standard white linen affair to something silk and expensive-sounding that had to be imported from Italy. Jesse had had to get Rachel out of there and fast, or they'd be living in a box when they returned home from their honeymoon. A Manolo Blahnik box maybe, but a box all the same.

"Her best," Rachel blustered red-faced, her dark hair bouncing wildly on her shoulders as she shook her head in an agitated fashion. "What if I said my best was Kylie circa 1997? Can you imagine the fiasco that would be the opening night of Cabaret if _that_ was my supposed best? I would be heckled off the stage,"

"True," Jesse allowed after a moment's pause, his expression pensive as he gently took his fiance's hand in his. There was rarely any point arguing with Rachel when she got into a mood like this. "But I really think you should give Jacqueline another chance. I mean, she did after all, secure those two trained doves for the ceremony,"

"I suppose," Rachel relented uncertainly, sighing charitably as though she'd just granted a serial killer on death row clemency. "Though, those birds better not drop our rings or roast pigeon won't be the only poultry option on our menu."

* * *

It's almost midnight, the night before the wedding and Rachel's face is a shade of luminous green, her skin embalmed in some miracle cream that apparently Denise Richards and Heidi Montag both swear by (or at least that is, according to this weeks issue of US Magazine). Jesse has a bottle of beer in his hands and is watching television, flicking through the channels aimlessly.

Rachel however, is stalking around their compact two-bed apartment as though she is possessed, slamming doors and muttering nonsensically under her breath something about having to do everything herself.

(Jesse pretends not to hear her.)

Her dress is custom made and fabulously expensive, flown especially from Paris and her shoes are sheathed in raw silk and studded with thousands of Swarovski crystals. Both are a secret of The Da Vinci Code proportions, Rachel having installed a formidable lock on the door of the spare bedroom that can only be accessed by the single, golden key swinging teasingly from around her neck.

"You've collected the suits, right?" she calls out worriedly, sticking her head around the sitting room door, her brown eyes wild and panicked and resembling those of a cornered, rabid dog.

Jesse's mouth is open, in the process of constructing an answer, when Rachel rampages on, the words gushing from her mouth in a violent, unchecked tirade. "Don't forget to collect the cake. Make sure the florists have included the black orchid in my bouquet. Call your mother, remind her not to be late. Call your brother, remind him not to come. Email the hotel the final numbers. Make sure they have a sugar-free desert for my uncle Charlie and tell the photographer that I want to have a photograph of us taken in the foyer of the Grand, bedside the cut-out of Julie Andrews,"

Rachel relays the information without drawing a single breath and when she finally stops, Jesse can only stare at his fiance in shock.

"Oh God, I've turned into a total bridezilla, haven't I?" Rachel finally proclaims, recognizing the look of abject terror on Jesse's face.

"Yeah, that happened about two minutes after I proposed to you," Jesse offers sheepishly, suddenly wondering if he wouldn't be better switching to whiskey. "For a while there, I thought the ring was possessed or something,"

"Really?" Rachel's asks in surprise as if her demands for fireworks synchronized to the tune of Sinatra's 'The Way you Look Tonight' are standard fare for weddings nowadays.

"Really," Jesse admits reluctantly, before he cups Rachel's chin in his hands and presses his lips to hers softly. "You know, Rachel," he whispers, the expression in his eyes tender as he addresses his almost-wife. "The only thing that matters is that we are getting married tomorrow. Everything else is just a bonus, so even if the flowers are wilted and none of our guests turn up or the hotel burns to the ground, the important thing, is that this time tomorrow we will be husband and wife,"

Even under the thin layer of gunk plastered on Rachel's face, Jesse can see she has turned a startling shade of white.

Was it something I said? Jesse wonders, trying desperately to recall which part of their conversation exactly, might have upset her.

"Rachel," Jesse tries but Rachel brushes past him, her hysterical screams already rising into the air.

It was going to be a long night.

**Thank you for reading:) Comments are much appreciated!**


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